


A Wake

by Essea Aen Carn (Trotzkopf)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Ciri died saving the world, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-16 20:53:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16961265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trotzkopf/pseuds/Essea%20Aen%20Carn
Summary: “I’m reasonably sure I told you I never wished to see you again,” Emhyr replied without so much as a hitch in his voice.“And this surprises you because…?”Emhyr snorted and shook his head. “Even if you had a good reason to disobey me yet again, it matters very little at this point. Go away, witcher. There’s nothing left to say, and I find I’ve had my fill of death for the day. Consider yourself lucky.”Instead of turning back like any smart man would have as this juncture, Geralt did the stupid thing and jumped into the room.





	A Wake

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr prompt response to anon request “Why are you crying?”

Geralt made it exactly ten steps away from the closed door to Emhyr’s office before he cursed his enhanced senses. A quick glance at the guards confirmed he was the only one who could hear the tiny noise like a sob stifled behind a large hand. This was the moment Geralt thought later when he should have just walked away, forget he had just found out that the White Flame who danced on the grave of his foes had a heart, and he - Geralt - had just broken it in the most awful way.

“Why am I doing this?” Geralt asked no-one in particular as he pulled himself up onto the roof of the palace in Vizima. Even the weather seemed to be conspiring against him. It was cloudy and a slight drizzle all made sure he wouldn’t be discovered and arrested, and thus stopped from committing a colossal folly such as dropping in on the emperor of Nilfgaard unannounced in the middle of the night.

Crouching on the edge above Emhyr’s chambers, Geralt listened for any sign of guards, but again only heard the unmistakable sounds of a parent quietly mourning the loss of their child.

“I’m an idiot,” Geralt said, thus answering his own question, and dropped down onto the windowsill.

Emhyr’s head whipped up when Geralt pushed against the glass and only his witcher reflexes saved him from getting a dagger between the eyes. He snatched the blade out of the air, but immediately held his hands out in front of him.

“Stop, it’s just me,” Geralt whispered as loudly as he dared.

“I’m reasonably sure I told you I never wished to see you again,” Emhyr replied without so much as a hitch in his voice.

“And this surprises you because…?” 

Emhyr snorted and shook his head. “Even if you had a good reason to disobey me yet again, it matters very little at this point. Go away, witcher. There’s nothing left to say, and I find I’ve had my fill of death for the day. Consider yourself lucky.”

Instead of turning back like any smart man would have as this juncture, Geralt did the stupid thing and jumped into the room. He set the dagger aside on a sideboard and met Emhyr’s incredulous gaze head on.

After a few heartbeats someone who sounded like Geralt of Rivia said in a broken voice, “She was my daughter too.”

*~*

“Did this with her, y’know? After Vesemir died,” Geralt informed Emhyr well into his bottle of vodka. They sat on the rug in front of the fire in the emperor's bedroom like old friends. That had been his second mistake Geralt would later tell himself. He should have insisted on chairs with a nice, big desk in between them. But no, Emhyr had held his gaze for a few more moments and then went to a cabinet filled with bottles and pulled two out before he had walked over and more or less folded up in front of the fire, leaving Geralt no option other than to leave him be, or join him.

“You’re a bad influence, witcher,” Emhyr informed him before he drained his cup. He was drinking wine, but then again he didn’t have a witcher’s metabolism.

Geralt nodded. “Yeah, I know. Does it—“ he hiccuped, “does it make you feel any better?”

Emhyr shook his head.

Geralt nodded again. “Didn’t help Ciri neither. Mistake I made, one of many. Tried to protect her, y’know? From Eredin, the Lodge, _you_.” He jabbed Emhyr in the arm and earned a withering look for his trouble, but there was no heat behind it, just grief.

Geralt had to look away first because Emhyr looked too much like he knew exactly how Geralt felt. Because he did. They both did. They had lost her and it was their doing.

“Witcher, I have tens of thousands of men all willing to lay down their life for her at my command and what good was it in the end? Matters little. Mutant or emperor, we failed, failed her.”

“Yeah,” Geralt agreed, swallowing around the lump in his throat. When he failed to dislodge it, he tried washing it away with more vodka with limited success.

“Where do we go after death?” Emhyr asked out of the blue, topping up his cup.

“Depends on what you believe. There’s no real proof, but it seems we can shape what comes next during our lifetime. Skelliger go to their mead hall. Those who believe in Melitele go to her garden. I presume the worshippers of the Eternal Fire get roasted - serves them right. Ha!”

Emhyr seemed to consider this. “But you’ve spoken with ghosts, wraiths. Did it never occur to you to ask?”

“That’s different. Angry souls cling to what was, they wouldn’t know the first thing about what comes after because they’re too focused on what they’ve lost. Any more where that came from?” Geralt asked, holding up the now empty bottle. Emhyr gestured toward the drinks cabinet and stared into the flames for a long time before he asked, “What did _she_ believe?”

Geralt hesitated for a moment. “Well, she was educated in Ellander but she also spent a lot of time in Skellige. I…I don’t know. We never spoke of such things.”

It was probably the alcohol talking, but for some reason the question of what Ciri believed became immensely important. Or more to the point, whether she had died with a heavy heart. The thought was almost too much to bear. Geralt knew she had fulfilled her destiny because the White Frost had stopped and started to recede, Avallac’h had confirmed it, yet Ciri had failed to return. Had she died knowing she had saved the world, all the worlds? Or did she leave unfinished business here?

“I gotta go,” Geralt announced abruptly and tried and failed to get off the floor.

“Good!” Emhyr replied, although it sounded more like a reflex than a true reflection of his feelings which was confirmed when he added, “Why?”

“Gotta go to Crockbag Bog,” Geralt explained. “Have a date with a lady.”

“You… _what_? You really have no sense of decorum, witcher. You’re at a wake. I expect you to behave accordingly,” Emhyr said with as much affronted dignity as a man who was already halfway through his second bottle of Est Est could muster, which wasn’t all that much, and did little else than confuse Geralt.

“Wake, what? _Decorum_? Whatever…if it makes you feel any better she’s mighty hideous and _old_ , ancient really. Gotta kill her. For Ciri.”

This time Geralt managed to get at least off the floor before Emhyr pulled him back down by the trouser leg. Alas, he had obviously misjudged his strength and Geralt’s ability to remain on his feet. Witcher reflexes marinated in vodka failed to live up to their reputation which meant Geralt lost his balance and half landed on Emhyr instead of the rug.

Trying to scramble apart only resulted in hands and legs in new places and they somehow ended up with Geralt lying on top of Emhyr, one thigh between the emperor’s legs, pinning him to the ground.

“Stop squirming, you’re making it worse,” Emhyr snarled, his hands framing Geralt’s face, presumably to get him to listen to him, which for once in his life, he actually did. Not because of their position, but because he could now clearly see the red lines crisscrossing through Emhyr’s eyes. Those were the eyes of a man who had cried for a long time. It certainly explained why there were no guards present. Emhyr had wanted to be alone with his grief. That was until Geralt had barged in and made a mess of things which had let to this impromptu wake.

Strangely enough, Emhyr’s thoughts seemed to have run on a similar path because he said, “Wakes are for the living witcher. To share our sorrow, even with those we would otherwise treat with contempt. It’s one of the few moments when even Nilfgaardians are allowed to display their emotions. Or have you used up all your tears already?”

“I…can’t,” Geralt replied. Emhyr’s brow furrowed. He was still holding Geralt’s face, his thumbs almost absentmindedly drawing circles on his skin.

“I can be sad, but I can’t cry,” Geralt explained and then in a suicidal moment added, “not like you. I almost envy you.”

“Envy me?”

“Mh-hm,” Geralt’s fingers had somehow become tangled in Emhyr’s hair, he told himself he was only trying to free them and not combing gently through the surprisingly soft strands. “You can let your sadness build up and literally flow away from you, leaving you empty, but hopefully at peace. At least that’s how I remember it. But I can’t. I have to carry it all with me. Or get angry. Pick a fight. Beat the anger and sadness until it lies on the floor with the sweat and the blood. Or—“ he bit his lip. Emhyr’s eyes followed the motion while his mouth asked, “Or?”

“Or…this.”

A part of Geralt had expected resistance when he closed the gap between them. Or maybe it had been Emhyr drawing him in all along. It seized to matter when Emhyr’s hands stroked back into his hair, holding him firmly in place while he kissed him within an inch of his life. And from hereon Geralt committed his third and final mistake as he helped Emhyr get rid off their clothes and then fucked him until each breath became a sob. Because in that moment, when he finally spent himself and the tears he couldn’t cry, Geralt realized that Emhyr var Emreis was part of his destiny as well and that he wouldn’t be able to let him go because they had both lost too much already.

The End


End file.
